The Dragon in the Ghetto Caper (5 page)

* * * *

When Edie answered the door the next day, Andy handed her the catalogs. He was curt and businesslike. He explained that he had chosen J.C. Penney because the descriptions were short and full of detail. He particularly recommended the hardware section. It was the way most conversation was: short and detailed like hardware.

“Not in real life,” Edie replied. “Sometimes a lot of people don't even talk anymore. Even those people who are perfectly able to do it correctly. And even those people who don't have to use their own words, like actors. Actors hardly talk anymore. Just last weekend, Harry—he's my husband—and I went to a movie that was supposed to be very realistic. It was even rated R, and it was mostly all grunts.”

Andy's eyes flew to the ceiling. “Listen, Yakots. I decided that we'll practice details, okay? Let's start.”

“If you say so. But I think it's harder to remember loose conversation than tight conversation. Like if I call you up, do you say
hi
or
hello
or what?”

“I never say
what?”

“And that's a good thing, too. Too many people say
what?
They say it even before they finish listening. Now, for myself, I hardly ever say
what?
Because, being a handicapped talker, I am a good listener. Just the way the blind are good feelers. Being a good listener, I notice that most people talk in sounds more than sentences and that they say
you know
to fill in the spaces.”

“That may be so, Yakots, but when I get my suspects
together to explain how all my clues led up to my finding the murderer, I'll have to talk in sentences. I'll have to show everyone step by step how I arrived at my conclusion. How my observations of every little detail, every little piece of the puzzle led me to the murderer. Now, Yakots, let's begin.”

“But, Andy, what you just said was about
your
talking, not about other people's. You said that you wanted to practice memorizing what you
hear.”

“Listen, Yakots, what you're saying may make sense, but if you're interested in being a sidekick, you'll do it my way.”

Edie turned to the hardware section of the catalog, read a little and looked up at Andy. “Surprised?” she asked.

“Surprised, Yakots? At what?”

“At how well I read? I get it all straight just the way it is written down. It's only when I open my mouth to let out my own words that the dragon enters. And only until I really know you.”

“Do you want an Academy Award for reading a hardware catalog, or can we continue, Yakots?”

Edie smiled and said, “Sure, boss.”

That
sure, boss
didn't come out garbled. As a matter of fact, it came out exactly right. Andy nodded at Edie. Perhaps having her help him wasn't too bad an idea.

B
y the last part of that same week, Andy's interest in memory training grew as thin as February's dawn's early light. He walked to Edie's as soon as the school bus dropped him off, and he inspected their garden. Now that it was beginning to whisper color, there was little left to do for it, except water, and that was best done early in the day, long before he got out of school.

Edie gave him a glass of Coke and set out a dish of olives for him. She had discovered that Andy liked green olives better than cookies, so she kept some on hand for him. Then Edie began reading the linen section of the Sears catalog. She had not even mentioned prices when Andy interrupted. “What do you think we'll find in the ghetto this week?”

“A detour. I read in the paper that they're building an addition to St. Vincent's Hospital.”

“That's not what I mean, Yakots. I mean what kind of flags and posters do you think we'll find? It's National Black History Week, for God's sake. I thought that everyone knew that. I expect to find posters of W.E.B. DuBois
and Martin Luther King and Mary McLeod Bethune.”

“I don't think you'll find anything different except the detour because of the hospital.”

“But it's
National
Black History Week, and Gainesboro is part of the nation, for God's sake. And Mary McLeod Bethune was president of a college that is practically next door to Gainesboro, for God's sake.”

“Don't expect parades either.”

“This is the way I look at it, Yakots. If I had a culture, I sure wouldn't be cool about it. I'd sure celebrate.”

“You have a culture.”

“I mean a ghetto culture, for God's sake.”

“You have a ghetto culture.”

“How can you say that, Yakots? I've lived in Foxmeadow all my life. Foxmeadow has no culture. Everyone here is
unanimous.”

They found the detour on Rutgers Avenue, on the Foxmeadow side of Sister Henderson's house. A fourblock area was fenced off for hard hats. Because of the detour they had to jog in and out of side streets, and they got lost. Andy was pleased. “You know,” he said to Edie as they rode up one street and down another, looking for another part of Rutgers Avenue, “you know, I've never been lost before. Before I put myself into training I used to get on my bike and ride and ride around Foxmeadow and try to get lost. But I never could. The best I could do was to confuse the eighteenth hole and the twelfth, but it's all arranged so that you can find your way back.”

“You can't get lost in Foxmeadow. All the dragons are locked out.”

“What dragons? For God's sake, Yakots, a guy can't have any kind of serious discussion with you. You keep bringing everything back to dragons. What dragons are you talking about now?”

“Only one. The one you're searching for. The one I'm going to help you find.”

“Just find your way out of here for now, Yakots.”

Edie did. They had not been long lost, not even long enough for Sister Henderson to get uncomfortable.

“Happy National Black History Week,” Andy said as soon as Sister had folded herself into the car.

“So it be,” Sister said. “Ah don' hol' too much with Black Hist'ry Week. Ah figgers it's like white choc'lit, somethin' that started out black bein' converted inta somethin' white, an't' me, it always taste a li'l bit waxy. But I thanks you anyways, Andy.”

So for National Black History Week they went on their appointed rounds just as they did every other week. Andy thought about Sister after they got home. She was so sure of what she was that she didn't need a week to remind her. That was the first time that he had ever thought about Sister, instead of thinking about himself in relation to her. She probably had thoughts all the time. She probably had more thoughts than she would ever say. Sister was like her ghetto: full of secrets and a secret kind of dignity.

* * * *

In March their garden got loud with pink. On Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays there was little to do except see and smell. There was a lot of time for memory training. A lot, a lot of time. Andy was grateful for Thursdays.

Edie was reading the fishing equipment pages, and Andy was making more mistakes than he ever had. “I think we ought to start another garden, a garden of wild things,” Edie suggested.

“Wild things, Yakots? You mean weeds? You want me to cultivate weeds?”

“Even the most important and dignified flowers were once weeds. Even roses. It's hard to transplant a wild thing like a wild flower or a dragon; for them to grow properly, they need a certain amount of neglect.”

“There you go again, Yakots, bringing dragons into the conversation when I'm not interested in dragons. I'm interested in detectiving.”

“You're interested in dragons all right.”

“I am not. I am not. I am not. They're just what come out when I sit down to draw, for God's sake.”

“Which came first?” Edie asked. “The dragons or the detectiving?”

“It's not a question of that—of which came first. The dragons just came. I never decided to draw dragons. They just came. They appear on any paper that I happen to be drawing on. I never make a decision about it.”

“Tell me when the first dragon came.”

“Are you trying to get out of this memory training,
asking all these questions? Are you trying to distract me?”

“Well, yeah,” Edie replied.

“I knew you wouldn't work out as a sidekick, Yakots. Don't consider yourself permanent. You may be replaced at any moment.”

“Am I fired, boss?”

“I didn't say that. Just don't be too confident. Just consider yourself
pro tern.”

Edie looked back down at the catalog. “We were learning hand-tied flies when we left off.”

“If you insist on my telling you about my first dragon, I'll tell you about my first dragon.” Edie said nothing. “Because I happen to remember my first dragon very well.” Edie closed the catalog and looked up, smiling. Andy picked up his glass of Coke, crossed his legs, gave the ice in his glass two stirs, one while looking down and one while looking up. Then he began. “I was in the third grade when it happened. We were in singing class, me and the rest of the third grade, and we were singing. The song we were singing was ‘Michael, row the boat ashore, hallelujah.' We were lined up in three rows, the whole third grade of us. Row one started the song, and when they got to
ashore,
row two was supposed to start and then row three. We were also supposed to make rowing motions with our hands and sway back and forth. I was in row one, and it's a known fact that if you ain't got rhythm, music is a lot of work. It's not easy to keep track of the words and row and sway at the same time. Well, everyone, even row three, had finished singing, and everyone had stopped
rowing and swaying. Everyone but me. I was concentrating so hard that I didn't realize that everyone else was finished, and I sang a solo for about a hundred or maybe a thousand minutes before I realized that I was doing it.

“After music we had art. We were told to draw Michael rowing the boat ashore. To have you draw what they have you sing is what they call
coordinating the arts
at Emerson. That's when I drew my first dragon. Michael was a dragon. So was his boat.”

Edie said, “If I could draw, I would draw a lot of dragons, too.”

“Well, I don't do a lot of dragons. I do
only
dragons. They're what come out. And I don't go to music class anymore.”

“Now will you tell me why you decided to become a detective?”

“You've had enough for today, Yakots. Maybe I'll tell you more some other time.”

Andy wasn't sure that he would tell Edie at all. He was boss. He had to keep some things for himself. Even Sister Henderson did that. After all, he wasn't quite twelve years old, and not much had happened to him. It wasn't like being twenty-nine years old, for God's sake. By the time he would be twenty-nine years old, he expected to have hundreds of happenings and about eight or nine famous cases inside himself. Then he could spare telling. Right now there was no point in telling Edie why he had decided to become a famous detective. He wouldn't tell right now. He'd wait a few years until he knew.

B
y the Thursday before Easter everyone at the Chronisters was completely involved with the wedding except Mr. who was completely involved with work. That week when Sister Henderson climbed into the back seat of the car, Edie turned to her and said, “I want to make a donation myself this week. For Easter.”

Sister Henderson raised her eyebrows. “Why, Ah'm supprized at you, Miz Yakots.”

“Why?” Edie asked. It's Easter, and I need total involvement. As it says in the Bible about charity in Matthew, Chapter VI, verse three.”

“Well, aw right,” Sister said, reaching over the front seat and taking the five dollar bill that Edie held out. “Like you and Matthew say: six three. Do you want it boxed?”

“That won't be necessary,” Edie answered.

They completed their rounds in silence, except for an occasional clicking of her tongue by Sister Henderson. When they arrived at Brother Banks's, Sister left the car and started down the path. She stopped, shook her head and returned to the car. “Are you sure you want this
total
involvement?”

“Of course she's sure,” Andy said. “What do you think she is? An Indian giver?” He stopped short. “Not that I have anything against the Indians any more than I do against you Blacks. Except maybe your manners.”

Sister Henderson paid no attention to him. She closed her eyes and clutched her bags to her and said, “Ah jes don' know what t' say.”

“Try
thank you,”
Andy suggested.

Sister Henderson continued nodding her head. “Ah jes don' know what t' say, Brother Maytag,” she said as Brother Maytag and his friend were walking down the steps of Brother Banks's house.

“Don't worry, sistah,” he answered. Brother Maytag and his friend drove out, talking to each other and not even waving to Andy and Edie.

Andy turned toward Edie. “That's another thing about the ghetto. They may have sidewalks and dignity, but they sure don't have manners.”

“Don't confuse manners and kindness.”

“Don't tell me that. My sister Mary Jane writes a fourpage thank-you note for two lousy tea towels, for God's sake. And here, you're giving Sister five whole dollars, and she doesn't even say a thank-you.”

“Maybe your sister Mary Jane just likes to write thank-you notes. I did. Of course, we didn't get many presents, Harry—he's my husband—and me. But for those we got, I liked to write thank you. Mostly because it is so hard for me to say it.”

“Do you like big weddings?” Andy asked.

“I love them.”

“Mary Jane's making a bigger celebration than national Black History. As far as I'm concerned, they're a big waste.”